Adam's Rib (13 page)

Hilmi said nothing. And the policemen left the apart
ment. Irina took a deep breath, put the chair back in its place, and then turned to the young man: “Are you hungry? Shall I make you something?”

“No. I'm eating out.”

ROCCO AND OFFICER PIERRON LEFT IRINA OLGOVA'S
apartment building.

“I need to have a little chat with this Adalgisa,” said Rocco.

“Who?”

“Adalgisa, Esther Baudo's girlfriend. I'm going back to headquarters.”

Italo looked at him, car keys in his hand. “Aren't you coming with me?”

“No. You're not going to headquarters either. You're going to tail the kid.”

“Who, the Egyptian?”

“That's right. Follow him. And tell me what he gets up to.”

Italo nodded. “Mind if I ask why?”

“Did you see the Band-Aid on his eyebrow or are you blind? If instead of running your mouth and spouting bullshit, you ran your brain, or if you looked around a little, then you'd know, like I know, that he had a piercing of some kind on his eyebrow.”

“Well?”

“Just watch the video of the attack on D'Intino and you'll understand what I'm talking about.”

“Do you think he had something to do with it?”

“I don't think it. I know it.”

“So you see that I was right?” asked Italo as he headed for the car.

“Right about what?”

“Right about lunch. I knew we were skipping lunch today.”

“Speak for yourself. I'm the boss, and first thing I'm doing is getting myself a bowl of spaghetti, then I'm going to track down this Adalgisa.”

IT HADN'T BEEN HARD. ALL IT TOOK WAS A PHONE
call to Patrizio Baudo and he had the address where Adalgisa worked. Even though he sensed—indeed, it was an unmistakable fact—that there was bad blood between Patrizio Baudo and Adalgisa. In fact, all he had to do was mention the woman's name to the new widower and he could sense a blast of icy air coming over the phone lines. Anyway, the woman worked in a bookshop in the center of town, not far from the piazza where the tax office building stood.

THE TAX BUILDING WAS A PIECE OF ARCHITECTURE
dating from the twenties, and it was as out of keeping with the general appearance of Aosta as a pimple on a newborn's skin. In the minds of the Fascist architects, the town hall clock was meant to replace the bell tower. No longer would it be church bells in the service of Christ marking the hours of the workday and sounding alarms. Now it would be the
clock, which was under the control of the top-ranking local Fascist official, the
podestà
. The geometrically shaped eyesore, though, did have one advantage. It told the correct time. Ten minutes after three. Rocco pulled open the bookshop's wooden front door. The place looked like a mountain hut. Wood-lined walls, which were stuffed to the ceiling with bookshelves lined with volumes, their spines a thousand different colors. Walking into a bookshop triggered a series of guilt complexes in him. Because time and time again, just like with a long-neglected diet, he made mental resolutions to start reading books again, one of these days. He could have read books every night when he came home to the apartment on Rue Piave, that nameless, drab place, devoid of any whiff of love, any scent of a woman. But he just couldn't bring himself to do it. As soon as he closed the door behind him, he was overwhelmed by a wave of unpaid bills from the past. The place was quickly haunted by thoughts thick as oil, thoughts that kept him from reading a book or even watching a movie with too complicated a plot. A turbulent sense of nostalgia, a yearning for the past, and the life that no longer existed took over; his books just lay there, on side tables and bookshelves, unopened: they sat there watching him as they faded and grew dustier with every passing day.

He stood by the door and noticed on the “new arrivals” counter a copy of the Turin daily,
La Stampa
, lying open to the local news page. There for all to see was the article about the mysterious death of Esther Baudo. A clear sign that the police chief had started talking with the news vendors, as he liked to call them, and also a sign that Adalgisa had
already received word of her girlfriend's death, albeit in the chilly, impersonal form of a newspaper article. A woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties walked toward him. She was tall and powerfully built, with a strong nose that looked good on her face. She had shoulder-length hair.

“Can I help you?”

She had big dark eyes filled with the kind of sadness that only Russian actors in black-and-white movies seem able to project.

“I'm Schiavone, deputy police chief of the Aosta mobile squad.”

The woman gulped and stood listening, saying nothing.

“I'm looking for Adalgisa.”

“That's me,” she said, tilting her head slightly forward. Then she extended her hand. “Adalgisa Verratti. You're here about Esther, right?”

“Yes.”

Adalgisa turned and called out toward the interior of the shop. “I'm going out for a moment!” she cried. “Be back soon.” Then she turned to look at Rocco. “Shall we go get a cup of coffee? Would that be all right?”

ADALGISA KEPT HER EYES LOCKED ON THE LITTLE
coffee cup as she stirred her espresso. “Esther and I went to high school together. We've always been friends. Always.” She sniffed. She hastily grabbed a paper napkin and dried her eyes.

“When did you talk to her last?”

“Thursday night.”

“Anything odd?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. The usual conversation. I wanted to take her with me to do Pilates.”

Rocco drank his coffee. It tasted like dishwater. He left the cup half-full and set it down in the saucer. “Let's get to the point. What wasn't right about Esther's life?”

Adalgisa smiled, stretching her mouth at both sides in a sort of grimace. “Aside from the fact that she was dissatisfied with her life and her marriage? That she didn't want to have children, but Patrizio was insisting on it? Nothing; everything was fine.”

“Things with her husband weren't going well?”

“Things with her husband weren't going at all. Patrizio is an asshole.”

There we go, thought Rocco.

“Why?” he asked.

“Jealous, possessive, he made her quit her job. Then, you want to know the thing that just made me stop speaking to him entirely? He made up his mind that I was a bad influence on her.”

“In what way?”

“I'm no longer married. Let's just say that I lead my life the way I like.”

“And what does that mean?”

“When I couldn't stand living with my husband anymore, I asked for a divorce and we each went our own way. Now I live as I please, free to spend time with anyone I like. My leisure belongs to me and, believe me, it's a beautiful
sensation. And I've even been able to get a couple of cats, something I couldn't do with that pain-in-the-neck of a husband of mine. I love animals, books, and movies. I don't care about cars, soccer, or the newest-model cell phones.”

“So Patrizio was convinced that you were trying to break up Esther's marriage?”

“You could put it that way. And if I had succeeded, then you and I wouldn't be here talking today, would we?”

“No. Maybe we'd be in the bookshop talking about books.”

Adalgisa bit into a sugar cube. “Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“And do you love your wife?”

“More than I love myself.”

The woman popped the other half of the sugar cube into her mouth. “I envy you.”

“Believe me, you shouldn't.”

“Why not? You love your wife, you're happy with her, no?”

Rocco smiled, nodded quickly a few times. Then he shot a look around the store, as if making sure nobody could overhear him. But then he said nothing. In the creases around Rocco's eyes, or in his gaze, or even in his somber smile, Adalgisa glimpsed a black and bottomless well of sorrow. Her heart began to race and she decided to ask the deputy police chief no more questions. Silently she took his hand. “How did Esther die? Tell me the truth.”

“Hanged, like the newspaper says.”

“It was bound to happen, sooner or later.”

A single tear ran quickly down Adalgisa's face. She didn't wipe it away. She let it run until it vanished over the line of her jaw.

“My poor sweet friend . . .”

“She didn't kill herself. Someone else took care of that for her.”

Adalgisa's eyes opened wide. “What? Someone killed her?”

“Right.”

The woman stood there, openmouthed. “I don't understand . . . by hanging her?”

“Someone staged it to cover up the murder.”

“But who could have . . .”

“That's what I have to find out.”

“No . . .” The word slipped out of Adalgisa's lips like a hiss. “No, no, no. Not like this. It's too horrible.” And she covered her eyes with both hands.

Rocco said nothing and waited for Adalgisa to run out of tears. The barista who had brought the two espressos to their table gave the policeman a disapproving look. Rocco felt like shouting out that he was completely innocent. It wasn't his fault that she was crying. But the old man shook his head and stared at him coldly. Finally the deputy police chief waved his hand, with a gesture that suggested the old man could go to hell and mind his own business. At last, the woman got a grip on herself. She wiped her eyes one last time: they'd become two glistening black spheres. “Oh Lord, I probably look like a raccoon . . .” she said, with forced cheerfulness.

“A little bit,” said Rocco. “What if I need to get in touch with you again?”

“Eh?” asked the woman, emerging from her thoughts.

“I said, if I need to get in touch with you again?”

“You can always find me in the bookshop. I'm always there, from opening time to closing. In the mornings, though, I get there at eleven. I have to go to the hospital.”

“I hope it's nothing serious.”

“No. My mother. Her hip is in pretty bad shape. I keep her company.”

“Good luck,” said Rocco. Then he picked up the check, read the total, and left a five-euro bill on the table. “Adalgisa, you aren't hiding anything from me, are you?”

“How on earth could I?” she replied, sniffing. “You're no fool, Dottor Schiavone, I can see that, and people find things out in this city. And I could never hide anything from you, believe me.”

But Rocco continued looking down at her, without saying a word.

“Dottor Schiavone, do I seem to you like someone who hides things? In less than five minutes I've told you details of my life that are so personal not even my mother knows them.”

“What does that have to do with anything? She's your mother. I'm just a stranger. It's much easier to open up to strangers, didn't you know that?”

HE WAS WALKING CLOSE TO THE BUILDINGS IN THE
center of town, like a stray cat doing its best to shelter from
the rain that had begun falling again. There were no taxis in sight; he'd have to walk all the way to police headquarters.

The Sinhalese standing under the portico appeared like a heaven-sent angel.

“How much?”

“Five euro one umbrella, seven euro two umbrellas.”

“What am I supposed to do with two umbrellas?” Rocco paid and picked the least flashy one, red with black polka dots. He opened it and continued on his way to the office. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

“Hey, Farinelli? Schiavone.”

“Ah, you're exactly who I wanted to talk to. Listen . . .” The assistant chief of the forensic squad was speaking in a strange voice, usually a sign that he was about to give the deputy police chief an angry dressing-down. “You guys left quite a mess here in the Baudos' apartment.”

“I know, I know, but I need to ask you something urgent.”

“I'm all ears.”

“Can you send Fumagalli all the belts and neckties you find in the Baudo residence?”

“Mind if I ask why?”

Now this, thought Rocco. “Because I have to examine them. Likely murder weapons.”

Farinelli laughed wholeheartedly. It was the first time Schiavone had ever heard him laugh. “I don't see the joke, Farine'!”

“So you're saying the murderer left the murder weapon in the apartment?”

“And you're saying I shouldn't even try?”

The laughter audibly caught in the throat of the deputy chief of the forensic squad. “No, certainly not, you're perfectly right.”

“Do it fast. The medical examiner is expecting them. And you know what a temper he has.”

“Him? The best thing for him to do would be take early retirement, take it from me. Now, listen carefully . . .”

“Tra . . . falgar . . . pea soup . . . grab bag in springtime?” asked Rocco.

“What?”

“No . . . tell . . . doesn't . . . anymore!
Hello?
Hell?
” and he snapped his phone shut. With a smile he started walking faster.

THE DROPS OF RAIN WERE SMEARING LIKE TEARS
across the window glass. If nothing else, they were bound to melt all the snow piled up on sidewalks and roofs. As he watched the rain pelt the asphalt, raising tiny jets of water, the phone on his desk rang, startling him.

“Who is it?”

“Dottore? This is De Silvestri.”

De Silvestri. The old cop from the police station on the Via Cristoforo Colombo in the EUR district of Rome. The man he could always count on, the one who did things before he was told to, a crucial piece of the life he'd once had, a piece whose loss he felt keenly. “De Silvestri? It's good to hear your voice!”

“How are things going up there in Aosta?”

Rocco looked around his office, looked at the rain on the window glass. “Any other questions?”

“Dottore, I'd never have bothered you if it wasn't for something very important. Unfortunately, there's something I need to talk to you about.”